Zombie Mode at Padel Camp

I drag myself onto the court like a total zombie, still recovering from last night's 2 AM Instagram doom-scroll session. The fluorescent gym lights buzz overhead as I squint at my opponents—Jake and Luis, who are somehow fully awake despite it being, what, 9 AM on a Saturday?

"You good, bro?" Mia asks, bouncing a ball near the service line. She's already in game mode, padel racket ready.

"Just tired," I mumble, forcing my brain cells to function. I glance at the bench where my iPhone sits there taunting me, screen lighting up with notifications. Coach has this weird no-phone policy during matches, which is honestly genius but also torture.

"Liar," she grins. "You were up until 2 AM again, weren't you?"

"Guilty as charged." I stretch my hamstrings, feeling like an old person. "But I'm locked in now. Let's crush these losers."

Jake and Luis are warming up, practically running laps around us with way too much energy. Meanwhile, I'm still stuck in zombie mode, my brain foggy from way too much screen time and not nearly enough sleep.

The game starts and slowly, the zombie fog lifts. The satisfying pop of the ball against my racket, Mia's perfect volley, the way we move together without speaking—it feels real. For the first time all day, I'm not thinking about likes, comments, or who's posting what story.

When we take a break, I chug water like I've been wandering through a desert for days. Jake high-fives me, and Coach yells something about positioning that I'm too tired to fully process. I glance at my bag and realize—my phone has been dark for two hours. And somehow, I haven't missed anything important.

The match comes down to the final point. Luis hits a screamer toward the corner. I'm sprinting, stretching, racket extended—somehow I get there. The ball sails back over the net, perfect placement. Game point.

Afterward, we're all breathless and sweaty, laughing about Jake's failed attempt at a trick shot that definitely almost broke his nose. I check my phone on the way out: 47 notifications. Weirdly, they don't feel urgent anymore.

"Same time tomorrow?" Mia asks, wiping sweat from her forehead.

"For sure." I actually mean it. "I'll sleep tonight. No cap."

"No promises," she laughs, gathering her gear.

But I will. Because this—real friends, real competition, real exhaustion—feels way better than being a zombie scrolling through someone else's perfectly curated life.